My Lips to God/dess's Ears

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My Lips to God/dess's Ears

Details: Saturday, 20 June 2020; Written by Eve Moore

My Lips to God/dess's Ears

My Lips to God/dess's Ears

It could be glass,

It could be fire,

this crushed

mountain I find

my soles grasping

as I wend wayless

this way

whose brambles,

fecund, densely twined,

would slow my progress

should I hew to the

imposing, its

shadow on

the shine.

Instead a magical

machete appears

in my left hand, my

right hand, though

I was trained

to think

it not,

made of

a quadrillion

sparkling suns,

bidding me

onward.

A wee black

and white butterfly,

nearly invisible,

appears before

me, flittering

my focus.

We are given the keys

to this kingdom with

manifold doors to

pry at each and

every turn.

Listen.

The wood thrush

sends its sonorous

spell onto the green

ethers, other worlds

blooming on her

sylvan song.

Look.

A lady slipper

orchard keeps watch,

time, under the rafter

of dappling light

tuned to these

wood’s winds

borne of the

heavens.

We are gifted

the means

to arrive

here,

ever lost

to being found.

And our breath asks:

how then, where then,

shall I go?

The multiverse

answers:

this

is why

you are

here.

To yield this.

To know this.

And all that

comprises.

Hear the

wood thrush.

Trust her ineffable

siren — calling,

calling...

The destination

maddening our

kind’s wandering,

occupying its crosshairs,

its pilgrim’s progressing,

has long ago been

arrived at, with

each, every

footfalling.

There is

no wrong

turn, says

the cloud

passing

by.

Yield.

Yield.

Loose the

coils twined

before and all

around, it

whispers.

See day

become night

become day,

anon.

Find yin receiving

yang, birthing

concord out

of discord —

as a luna moth

rouses the

settle of

night.

Confluence.

Convergence.

A new full

that will not tear

itself apart.

Move

like it.

For here

there is no

against.

Here is a

stillness that

flows, as ever,

heart beating,

blood flowing,

cells happening,

ceasing, atoms

becoming

life on

earth.

Stream.

her.

Course

and make

sanctuary

for vastness

teeming

that would not be

were it not for your current,

your undercurrents,

your gaze, your

presence

here.

A place

that is always

right where

we are.

All

is.

And the holy

wheel turns.

And ever

unfolds

as ever.

A map

as ancient

as air.

And I supplicate

the summer

breeze.

A petal

falls into

the soft hold

of the brook;

lighting down,

downstream,

it whispers:

bygones,

bygones.

[ Happy, holy, healthy solstice, one and all! ]

Eve Moore: Once a professional writer of advertising, I saw the light & it has shown me words of a different nature. And so I take them down & offer them up. And all is well.

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.”
—Jimi Hendrix

This poem was submitted exclusively to CrystalWind.ca by Eve Moore.

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